


When it's Cold I'd Like to Die

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, mirror emma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 10:25:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2578172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes we ask questions we don’t need (or want) the answers to. Sometimes we look in the mirror and don’t like what we see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When it's Cold I'd Like to Die

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted on tumblr by my darling xoxogossipgrumpy, a very specific prompt. Title's a moby song on my "angst writing" playlist that just happened to come on.

“You're rather quiet this evening,” Killian murmured. And it was no wonder, he thought as he removed his leather coat (he still had to get used to the shortened thing; since he'd changed, he often caught himself turning and feeling amiss, off-balance, the heavy sway of the old duster gone. On days like this one, he missed his old pirate self, though he'd never admit as much to Emma or anyone, much less himself). The stunning revelation of the Snow Queen Ingrid's plans had thrown them all for a loop.

He escorted Emma back to the Charming loft, this time leading her by her trembling arm rather than following at a half-step back. Their new understanding gave him that right, he told himself, and since the infuriatingly beautiful blonde never indicated through word or body language that she felt otherwise, he took her non-comment on his gallant behavior as tacit agreement. Perhaps he ought ask whether she minded, his taking her arm—but she seemed far too upset for words, so he would bring it up later.

Still, as he lead her to the sofa and seated her next to him, he felt off-kilter. Killian was unused to his Swan being so soft and vulnerable with him. It was wondrous, of course, something he'd dreamt of in that nebulous way, when he was lying awake and staring up into the dark, creating scenarios both lovely and filthy in which Emma Swan would open up to him. Now that she had, he found—as centuries' worth of living had taught him—the dream was far different from the reality. In the case with his savior, the reality was so  _good_ that in his more erstwhile moments he caught himself dry-throated and incapable of maintaining his smirking facade. Much like now, with his arm around her shoulders and she pressing her face to his shoulder, allowing the intimacy. When he spoke she raised her hand and clutched at his waistcoat, her fingers curling into the sleek, tailored fabric, playing with the buttons idly. He could hardly help himself from smiling into the top of her head, his eyes roaming, memorizing every subtle shift in the color of her hair; some strands near white, some more flaxen, ones that shimmered with the rays of the sun; others almost red, almost angry, subtle and sparse but screaming for attention.

Her wandering hand tugged at his collar, pulled at the old chain 'round his neck. She continued a meandering, idle path across his shoulder and down his arm. When she got down to his hand, she sat up a bit and he moved the hook at her back so she'd not harm herself, an act he had to enact more and more often the nearer she allowed herself to be with him. He was both terrified and elated acknowledging it; the closer she chose to be with him, figuratively and physically, there was a greater danger to her. To her person, to her heart. And yet here she was, not shying from it. Marvelous.

Emma pulled his hand into hers and flipped it over, tracing the lines in his palm with gentle fingertips. She twisted the ring on his thumb this way and that, trying to wrest it down and when she could not, a small furrow appeared between her brows. He laughed and kissed it; she looked up at him, almost in surprise, as if she'd forgotten he was there. She smiled, her entire countenance softening as he looked upon her with love, his chest swelling with the feeling. After a moment or so her expression changed to one of mischief, and she turned back to his hand. Her fingers returned to the skin of his palm but now there was a note of something else, something deeper, slightly tawdry in the action, in the way she stroked each digit with the tip of her finger, pinching when she got to the tips. A rakish comment bubbled in his throat but he held it back; he did not wish to ruin the moment with his mouth. Or at least not with his words.

Emma continued her questing perusal of his hand, tracing the lines and veins down his palm until her fingers circled his wrist. She dipped into the cuff of his shirt, tickling at the pulse, the hairs on his arm standing at attention with her gentle touch. She flicked open the button at the cuff and used one hand to lift the sleeve, the other to trace along the sinewy veins in his forearm. She stopped short when her fingers hit the tattoo.

He sucked in a breath. It wasn't often that he thought of Milah these days and less often that he saw the inked permanence as more than a mark on his skin, but with this woman in his arms and the two of them at the precipice of what he knew to be something damned near miraculous, every little piece that stood between them felt like cool shards of glass in his skin, harmless on their own but if left alone carved little pinpricks of harm, bleeding him and winnowing in and causing irreparable damage. He never wanted to hide any aspect of himself from her and he prayed she felt the same way, but every obstacle they had overcome, both little and large, had thus far proved a satisfying challenge. As she poked at the tip of the dagger in the tattoo he held his breath; he could discern a question brewing in her eyes, could see the subtle shift from sunray-streaked gold-green to the overcast haze of the sea before a deluge.

“What is it, love?” he murmured, always deciding to chase the storm rather than attempt to sail around. She looked into his eyes, her lip trembling slightly.

“I was just...wondering.” She bit her lip and sighed, and he saw the moment she did as he had just done, faced whatever was bothering her rather than avoid it. His heart soared at the small allowance; again, every small victory and all that.

“About?” he teased, hoping to make light of whatever was obviously weighing on her heart. She traced the lines of the inked dagger, her fingers hovering just over the swirls of the fine script of Milah's name.

“About...Marian,” she said softly. Marian? “And Regina.” Ah. He wondered if the dawning comprehension was showing on his face. “And how Robin had to choose, and like, it's an impossible situation, I totally get that, I just—“ She paused, taking a large breath, seeming to need the fortitude to continue. “I wondered if you'd make the same choice. If you were Robin, I mean. Would you... would you pick M—Marian.” She was no longer looking at him and yet her fingernails pressed near painfully into his skin, and he was certain she did not do it on purpose.

His mind reeled. Milah? For he knew Emma was speaking in metaphors. Would he choose Milah over Emma? He wanted to assure her no, a thousand times no. Milah was his past, Emma was his future; she was his present, she was his all and sundry and he wanted all of it.

But perhaps he hesitated too long, trying to gather the strength and the absolute correct words to assure her that he loved her, he would never love anything or anyone as much as he loved her; his hesitation rose from wondering whether Emma would be able to process such a declaration,  _the_ declaration; whether she was ready to learn just how much she meant to him, how she was the reason he arose every morning and would continue to be his reason for being—hell, that he was certain she was the very reason the gods had seen fit to give him such a terribly long life. That they were born hundreds of years and several realms apart was incidental; they were True Love, he knew it the first time he touched her skin, had exchanged barbs and quips with her saucy mouth. Well, his darkened heart and troubled soul had ignored it at the time, but his fingers and eyes and nose and all of his sense and senses had recognized it; it merely took his hard heart a little while to recognize it, to accept love once again.

These were the thoughts that rushed through his mind, but he realized with dismay as she tore from his arms that his brief pause, those few seconds he took to reflect and figure out how to say “I love you, silly woman” without triggering her flight reflex had cast doubt in her mind.

“Emma, wait!” he called, reaching out to pull her back into his embrace, but she sidestepped him, making for the door. He bolted, giving chase  _(ever the one to head prow-first into a burgeoning storm_ , he thought dimly), and when his hand wrapped around her forearm, he felt a shocking jolt of crackling electricity.

“Emma,” he pleaded, hating the whimper, hating the simmering anger he had felt from her, realizing she had reacted instinctively—she had used magic on him. His hesitation had overset her that much.  _You blackguard_ , he thought to himself.  _You rake. You fucking_ _**pirate** _ .  _Fix this_ .

But by the time the shock of her furious and sad magical jolt wore off, she was gone.

xxxx

_I am an idiot._

Emma was running, and she knew she was being stupid; she  _knew_ how he felt about her. But her mind had been going at a thousand miles a minute lately. There was just too much shit happening, too much going on, too many worries. Then along comes this new Snow Queen-related worry that once again, Emma Swan was not in control of her own fucking life. The worry brow had been on her face all day, she knew it, and it was trying to like, insinuate itself into her brain and seep into the other thoughts she tried to keep to herself, like whether Henry working for Gold was maybe a good thing kind-of-probably, or whether it was possible that Mary Margaret wasn't doting on her as much as she usually did and did it bother her, or whether David was endearing in the role of protective papa bear, or whether Killian...

Killian.

_Why did I even ask him about Milah? Marian, whatever._ _Stupid, stupid._

She knew the answer to her own question, she totally did. But she couldn't help it, self-doubt was just one of those things she would always have. She knew he cared about her ( _he loves you, dipshit_ ), but it's kind of like when you have a really disgusting scab and you know you should leave it alone, you  _know_ it'll scar if you pick at it, and yet. There you sit, staring at the thing, so you tell yourself you're just going to poke at it a little, maybe get rid of the tiny little edges that are like, dead skin already and don't matter, but before you know it, you can feel that delicious sting of pain as you accidentally tear off another layer of skin and then suddenly there's like, a big ass drop of blood welling there. So what do you do? You get a tissue and blot it and shake your head at yourself and call yourself a fucking idiot. And you  _know_ it'll leave a permanent mark. And you also know that now that you've picked away at the thing and done some decent damage to yourself that it'll sit there and like, catch on shit like table corners or your purse or your sweater and it'll hurt every single time, but you say to yourself, “yeah, well. Serves you right.”

_Serves you right, Emma_ .  _You wanted to hear him say it. You made him choose. Ugh. Then you didn't even give him time to answer properly._

Like the way he treated her and looked at her like the sun rose and set on her face and that her hair was made out of whatever, something awesome. Like he didn't freaking trade his fucking  _ship_ for her.

Oh God, what did she even do?

Emma was so lost in her own self-recriminations that she didn't notice the water puddling at her feet until she started to slip on slush. She looked down, totally forgetting her torturous thoughts in favor of a sneer; the ice cream queen finally showing herself. _Well, come at me, Fudge Ripple._ Emma steeled herself, feeling an angry course of magic shimmer up her spine and settle in her gut.

She didn't feel it, though, whatever frozen magic it was that hit her and took her away. As she came to much, much later, all she knew was that she was fucking cold and couldn't fucking move.

_Where are you, love?_

She didn't know if the errant thought was her projecting a Killian-saving-her scenario or whether he was actually calling out to her; she opened her eyes and tried to adjust to her surroundings. Everything was white; snowy freaking white. And not in a Mary Margaret's loft kind of way, in the is-that-couch-an-ice-sculpture kind of disturbing-as-hell way. There were stalagmites everywhere ( _g_ for ground, right? Whatever, spiky ice things stabbing out of the ground).

The frozen Fortress of evil Solitude. Great.

Emma was bound by something, and tight; she couldn't really see much, either, just whatever was in front of her. All she knew was that she was trapped. She tried a few experimental poufs with her hands, but it was like before—she was too cold to conjure up so much as a flash of light much less any real heat.

A noise startled her, then miss fake Foster Mother herself entered, walking in her bare feet and looking like she'd just made the world's best Cherry Garcia or something. She glanced over at Emma and her lips curved into that soft, deadly smile. Keeping eye contact, the snow queen held out her palm and Emma saw a single, perfect snowflake sitting there. Her grin widened before she blew gently; the snowflake turned into flurries and Emma watched with utter fascination as the swirl of snow started taking shape, turning into something...fucking familiar.

Holy  _shit_ .

Within moments, Emma was staring at...herself. Only like, not. The eyes were a chilling blue, kind of like Ingrid's. But yeah, same freckles, same hairdo. Huh, that jacket rides a little high in the back; she'd never noticed.

But seriously, what the  _fuck_ .

The Snow Queen turned and left; Mirror Image Emma walked up and winked at her before reaching over with her index finger crooked and making for her face. Emma scrunched back, trying to avoid getting poked in the eye or, who knows, her brain or essence absorbed out into alterna-Emma's brain, but then she heard this tapping. Her eyes widened.

She, real Emma she, was stuck inside a mirror of some sort.

Seriously, what the fuck.

She screamed. She thrashed and kicked; she felt her anger and frustration simmering, dying to burst out, but it wasn't working. Nothing was working.

She was stuck in an ice mirror.

Mirror Emma winked at her again.

She felt this new burst of rage bloom in her chest, but then it fell down into the pit of her gut and the bottoms of her feet. She thought she would faint, or vomit, or faint and vomit.

No.

Killian,  _no_ .

“Love, there you are! Gods, I was so worried,” he called out frantically, rushing in and enveloping fake Emma in his arms (that was her hug, goddammit!). She could see the relief settle on his face, wiping the lines of worry from his brow and seriously, could her maybe-boyfriend not  _tell_ that wasn't her? Wasn't the fake bitch like, cold to the touch, couldn't he just  _feel_ that something was off?

Apparently not. Because then they were kissing, and Emma thought she was going to choke on anger and rage and puke.  _Get off my pirate!_ she hollered out, but her voice was echo-y and dim, bouncing around inside the confines of the mirror she had somehow gotten stuck in.

“Oh, Killian,” the fake Emma crooned,  _crooned_ . Like, shouldn't that be some kind of clue for him? Emma didn't croon. And she certainly didn't—oh,  _oh!_ She was caressing him now, what the hell! Squeezing his arm, touching his face, her fingers playing with the hairs on his neck. Brushing the backs of her fingers on his scruff— _her_ scruff, she owned the right to that scruff, she'd been dying to do it for ages! Shit, this was bad. This—this  _impostor_ was trying to seduce him! Killian Jones, the seducer; Killian Jones, the guy who gave up his ship and his pirate life and and and like, he'd been around for centuries and chased her and didn't he  _know_ that wasn't her?

Emma felt her soul sink in on itself. All the misgivings, all the deepest, darkest thoughts she'd ever had and outright refused to acknowledge started to weigh her down. If she weren't tied and bound and stuck inside a stupid piece of ice glass, she would have fallen through the earth.

As it turns out, in the end? She wasn't all that memorable, not worthy of knowing well, not if he didn't recognize a fake her when it was literally in his arms. She was too broken, too untrusting. She hadn't given all of herself to him yet. How could he know her when she wouldn't even share everything?

But she was getting there, she swore she was. She just needed time, needed—she needed  _him_ . God, he gave himself to her fully, she just didn't want to see it, refused to acknowledge it until recently and what had it gotten her?

This. Watching as he accepted this fake Emma's kisses, and was she unbuttoning his shirt? Oh my God, this is—it was too much. Too much.

“Too much, not enough, I'm not enough,” she whispered, hearing the moment when her own voice and will broke. The bindings were too tight, she couldn't breathe, it was making her heart squeeze painfully. She tried to close her eyes but she felt ice-cold prickles force them open, making her watch, making her see what was probably the worst thing she'd ever witnessed.

Killian, the man she thought she trusted and might even—he was kissing another woman.

Emma let out a strangled sob and tried to stand up straighter, to bear it with fortitude. Men had fucked her over before. This was nothing. She could forgive him for this, if she ever got out of here.

_No you can't_ , her mind hissed.  _Turns out, once a pirate, always a pirate. You can't trust him._

_Yes, I can_ , her heart shouted. Her magic agreed.

_He lived for hundreds of years to avenge the death of a woman. A woman who was not you. A woman who deserved that kind of love. He hasn't even been with you a month_ ( _Years_ , her heart whispered brokenly.  _He pined for actual years._ )  _And what are two years to two hundred, Emma?_ her mind scoffed. He'll get over you. Looks like he already has.

“It's not me,” she whispered.

_It's definitely you. You're not worth it._

Her magic didn't like that, and neither did the rest of her.

_He made you believe you were worth it, but he didn't even believe it. Look at him! Look at—oh, oh! Check out that move! He's never done that to you. Evil Fake Emma is more adventurous than the boring Savior, check out that tongue—_

“Shut up.”

_Can't. You know it's true. Me not talking won't change it. Just give up, already. You love the guy, so let him be happy with the better version of you. Oh, look at the way he's using that hook, you're definitely missing out—_

No. Emma started to struggle again.

_Oh please. Savior, my ass. You can never even save yourself. What're you gonna do, save the pirate from the hot sex he's about to have? Please. He won't thank you for that._

“Bite me.”

_Good retort. I bet the Other Emma has a better way with words, too. Like the pirate. They're better together, can't you see that?_

That made Emma angry. No, she couldn't see that. An angry lick of anger flowed up her spine, and she felt whatever it was binding her loosen a fraction.

Her mind sighed.  _Really, Emma. You can't win here._

“I can try.”

_He won't want you after he's had a taste of that. Look how he's tasting her—_

“He'll still want me. And I'll still want him.”

As Emma worked on freeing herself, she was just talking, sassing her stupid brain back automatically, as she did, but she realized as she felt another of the bindings loosen that she meant it. She  _would_ still want him. She'd  _always_ want him. She loved him.

She felt warmth flowing through her. It was familiar warmth, too; it smelled like him.

The bindings loosened more.

_You'll never get out of here,_ her mind whispered, and was it panicking a little? What was going on?

Emma sneaked a glance at the amorous couple in front of her, but she noticed something weird: their images were rippling, like a stone thrown in water, then many stones, many ripples at once. What the hell—?

“Emma!”

Killian's worried, love-filled voice washed over her and she was being drawn into him. He crushed her head to his chest and she breathed in deeply, gasping and choking on the smell of leather and ice and  _him_ .

He was whispering her name over and over, the frenzy in his voice receding in favor of soft murmuring as his hand tangled in her hair. She let him comfort her, but her heart was pounding, pulsing licks of residual anger seeping out of her pores. She stood up suddenly, breaking his embrace. He looked at her with confusion, tilting his head to the side.

“Love, what—“

“Where is she.” It wasn't a question, more like an accusation.

“Who? The Snow Queen?” Killian's head cocked to the side and his eyes swept the ice fortress; she saw him adopt his fighting stance and she thought he looked remarkably unruffled for a man who just a moment ago was being pretty thoroughly seduced.

“No! The Other—what are you doing?” Killian was looking at her, a worried expression once again descending on his face. His hand came up to caress her cheek and she allowed it, even though she felt pretty damned betrayed at the moment.

“Love, I was so frightened for you,” he finally said, his voice soft and breaking a bit. “When you disappeared, we looked everywhere. Days, Emma; it's been days!”

“Days?” she whispered, trembling. Had it been days? It felt like hours, but then again, she didn't know how long she'd been out before she came to in the stupid mirror, which she just now noticed looked perfectly fine right there behind Killian, like some shabby chic thing the Snow Queen had found in Storybrooke's flea market, if it had one. It wasn't shattered or even cracked, so how had she busted out? Did she magic herself out?

Killian was still talking, his voice hushed as he caressed her face, drawing her in once again so that his chin rested on the top of her head. “And then when I finally got the Crocodile to tell me where the Snow Queen's lair was located, I nearly wept with relief. When I burst in, you were simply standing here, staring at yourself. I—Emma, Belle said the mirror showed you the worst fears in your heart. I don't know how long you were standing here. Did you—do you wish to talk about it?”

No. She really, really didn't.

The dawning realization was like being doused with the coldest fucking water on the  _planet_ .

It wasn't real.

That hadn't been real.

_This_ was real. Killian, wrapping his arms that much tighter around her as she began to shiver, and it wasn't because of the cold (not entirely). Killian was real, and he was warm, and he loved her.

“If I'd have lost you—“

“Never,” she whispered. She hoped he could hear it in her voice, what she really meant.

As he lead her away, Emma knew that she would have to spend some time thinking about that, about how the worst thing the mirror had to show her was...what she saw. Trudging out into the sunshine with Killian's arm wrapped around her, she felt a sense of furious purpose fill her; she  _would_ confront Ingrid, and she would defeat her. And he'd be right there next to her the entire time. 


End file.
